


Hunger Like a Storm

by thejizzler



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Comfort, Drunkenness, Hand Jobs, M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 22:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12352155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejizzler/pseuds/thejizzler
Summary: After Oswald lets an unfrozen Ed Nygma go, Zsasz offers his boss comfort in the only way he feels capable of. Post-4x04 fic.





	Hunger Like a Storm

Zsasz watches Nygma leave The Iceberg Lounge. He’s unarmed, face crumpled and gait unsteady - no threat to anybody like this. 

He fingers the blade in his hand anyway, picturing the ease with which he could slide it into that slender neck and the accompanying blood-sweet sting of another tally on his own skin.

Unmoving, he watches Nygma turn a corner and vanish from his line of vision. He pockets the blade, woefully unused, and heads inside.

Penguin is seated with a brimming glass of amber liquor in hand, Freeze standing beside him. They’re wrapped up in a largely one-sided conversation that winds down as soon as Zsasz takes a seat at Penguin’s side. 

“You may go now, Victor,” Penguin announces, friendly but firm. “Thank you for your help tonight.”

Freeze nods and turns to leave, the space warming with his absence.

“You let him go,” Zsasz says, eyes trained on Penguin’s profile as he gulps at the tumbler in hand.

“Victor?” Penguin asks. He turns to look at him, danger in his eyes. 

“Nygma,” Zsasz clarifies, unruffled. He tilts his head toward the bouquet of red flowers still occupying the platform Nygma’s ice block once carried. 

“Turns out that blonde you murdered knew what she was talking about,” Penguin replies. He takes another sip at his drink. “His smarts are gone. Not worth the bother of refreezing him.”

That was a mistake, Zsasz knows, but one that will no doubt end in blood-spray, so he stays silent. He watches Penguin down what’s left of his glass and refill it, then repeat the motion once more. Then again, and again, until the hue of his face flushes from white to red and his eyelids droop with drunken heaviness.

Penguin slides inches closer to him, turning to look at him, slightly dazed. Zsasz eyes him with hungry curiosity. 

“You don’t talk much, do you,” Penguin slurs. “Neither of my Victors do.”

“I’m more a doer than a talker, boss.”

“Yeah,” Penguin laughs at that. “Yeah, I bet.”

There’s a sly suggestiveness in his tone Zsasz has never heard before. Zsasz grins, baring all his teeth.

Zsasz brings a gloved finger to Penguin’s cheek, just to see what will happen. He’s both surprised and not when the man leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. 

Zsasz trails the finger down the line of his neck, a test. Penguin tilts his chin up, throat on display. His breaths are coming harder.

“Interesting,” Zsasz says aloud to himself, poking a fingertip beneath Penguin’s collar. 

Penguin’s eyes open at that, pupils gaping voids.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Okay, boss.”

Zsasz runs his hand down Penguin’s chest and belly before reaching the stiffened bulge of his crotch. His thighs spread as Zsasz rubs him to full hardness, cane and emptied glass clattering to the ground when he brings one hand to Zsasz’s shoulder and another over his own face.

Zsasz continues rubbing, rolling his wrist, marveling at the sounds leaving Penguin’s mouth, broken and undignified. The wails of wounded prey.

“Nobody’s ever done this for you before, eh, boss?” 

“No,” Penguin manages between cries. He’s rutting up against Zsasz’s hand with unpracticed but enthusiastic movements. “Oswald.”

“Hm?” Zsasz’s hand speeds.

“Call me Oswald,” Penguin gasps. “Ohhh. Please.”

“Okay, Oswald,” Zsasz complies. The name feels foreign on his tongue. His hand speeds further still. 

Penguin moans, open-throated. His mouth is a reddened O and his hand is gripping tightly at his own collar. Zsasz knows it’s not him he’s thinking about.

Zsasz leans forward and down, licks at Penguin’s neck. When Penguin reacts with a near-scream, he sinks his teeth into the saliva-slick patch of skin. His hand slows as he allows Penguin to thrust up against his palm, desperate.

Zsasz presses a kiss against his jawline, and Penguin comes in his pants, cries mangled and incomprehensible as his hips still and he slumps backwards.

Zsasz pulls away and watches him come down, a hand back over his face as if embarrassed, chest heaving wildly, the fabric at his crotch wrinkled and darkened.

Penguin’s hand drops after several minutes, his breaths slowed down. He does not look Zsasz in the eye.

“Thank you, Victor,” he says. “Leave me.”

Zsasz stands.

“Sure thing, boss.” 

He lets the last word hang between them. This time, Penguin does not correct him. 

Zsasz looks down at him and at last turns to leave. 

He pretends not to hear the quiet sobs that hit the air behind him as he swings the entrance door open and faces the sharp chill of the night. 


End file.
